


Feels Like Home

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: First Kiss, Forehead Touching, Guilt, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27373336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: “My room or yours?” Richard whispers, his breath ghosting across Thomas’s ear as he leans in close, heat blooming in its wake.On their return to Downton, Thomas and Richard spend the night together.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71





	Feels Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Let's all pretend that I'm posting this two months after my first fic for them, rather than, y'know, a year and two months later.

By unspoken agreement, they move upstairs together, shared intention in every step.

In Thomas’s experience, a sure smile and bright eyes have never been a guarantee of returned affection, but there is an appeasing warmth Richard exudes that soothes away the edge of any lingering nerves whose tendrils threaten to root and hold him fast.

It is only when they reach the door to the attic that Richard pauses, gloved hand settling on Thomas’s arm, stilling him before he can push it open.

“My room or yours?” Richard whispers, his breath ghosting across Thomas’s ear as he leans in close, heat blooming in its wake.

Thomas thinks of his own room, cold and bare, a stark reminder of his current demotion and the bitter sting of rejection that would hurt more if he didn’t have a companion to spend these moments with, however brief their time together. Richard’s room is full of light in his memory—warm sun, soft smiles, kind eyes. A friendly face and an understanding ear from the moment he arrived.

“Yours,” Thomas decides. Richard is the closest he has felt to being home in a long time. “It’s nearer,” he says instead, by way of explanation. A smirk pulls at Richard’s lips, but he doesn’t attempt to unpick the fragile logic. He must know what Thomas means to say.

The corridor is thankfully deserted as they cross quickly to Richard’s door, a hush of quiet footsteps across stone. The click of the lock sounds as a pistol crack in the silence but no soul stirs to investigate—a breathless moment that only extends once the door closes behind them and Richard backs him up against the wood, leaving Thomas pinned by nothing more than the gentle press of three fingertips and his searing gaze.

Then Richard steps closer, leaning in to tip their foreheads together, and they are touching there, too, skin to skin—just two points of contact and Thomas’s heart trying to leap into the space between them.

A fresh surge of adrenalin courses through him, hot and bright, an electric shock on aching bones. He owes it to Richard, after all he has done for his sake, to take this thrill and turn it into something more. To find a home for the rush of helpless gratitude he doesn’t know how to express in words—to instead reach out and return Richard’s touch with his own, to run the pad of his thumb over the sweep of Richard’s cheek and watch his eyelids flutter and fall. To take satisfaction in the shaky exhale that unfurls across his lips, warm and wanting and seeking more than breath alone.

He isn’t sure which of them is the first to move, in the end. All he knows is the gentle weight of Richard’s palm against his chest, fingers catching between shirt and skin, his own caught somewhere in Richard’s hair as he presses forwards to claim his lips.

Relief swells in Thomas’s ribcage as Richard kisses back, eager and fervent, like he has been waiting for this moment for as long as Thomas has—since their conversation outside the police station, perhaps, the leather of his gloves a poor substitute for his lips, or maybe even before then. A barely suppressed moan escapes from his tongue as Richard expertly deepens the kiss, tipping his chin with one deliberate fingertip to find the perfect angle.

It’s all Thomas can do to follow his lead, a delicate balance of desperation melting instinctively into slow and languid, two partners engaged in an unfamiliar dance and feeling their way through it together.

Suddenly Richard’s hand could be another’s, the press of their bodies too close to the memory that forces itself to the forefront of Thomas’s mind. He pulls away, more sharply than he intends, but it is enough to send Richard stepping back, his hands carefully removed from Thomas’s skin.

“Forgive me, I should’ve thought,” he says, no more than a whisper despite the darkness that shrouds them.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Thomas is quick to reassure him, already missing the careful attention of his lips, the soft slide of his palms. “It’s just...”

Richard takes his hesitation and turns it into gentle understanding. “The desk sergeant said you were dancing with another man when they found you. Were you and he—?”

“No,” Thomas swallows heavily. He wonders if Richard can hear all his hope and sorrow contained in the single syllable. “I’d never met him before tonight. I’d never... Had you heard of it?”

Richard nods, but there is no judgement in his eyes, pale in the moonlight. “I am from York. There were a few before Turton’s. A new one’ll be open before you know it.”

“And the men that were there?” Thomas asks quietly, on the sharp edge of a whisper. He has his suspicions—a knot of dread pulling tighter in his stomach until only a sword could cut it.

Richard’s expression twists and Thomas catches the shadow of guilt in his eyes before he looks away. “I’m sorry. If I could get them all out using my credentials, I would.”

“I know,” Thomas says, reaching for his hands and holding tight, “I guess I just needed to hear you say it.” Richard is not to blame for this. It was never his intention to lay it at his feet, just as Richard would never voice aloud the same insistent thought turning over in a quiet corner of Thomas’s mind, an accusation of his own naive indiscretion. “None of this should’ve been yours to bear.”

Richard is quiet for a long moment. “I believe I thought only of you,” he admits eventually.

It is, perhaps, the first time Thomas has seen him appear anything less than assured, for all the quiet, almost overt confidence he exudes. It only serves to stir the earlier sensations curling low in his stomach—that deep, nameless urge now renewed into clarity by his longing.

“And I’ve thought of a way to show my gratitude,” he murmurs, trembling with anticipation as he sinks to his knees.

“Oh, I see,” Richard breathes, and the smirk that accompanies the words shouldn’t make his eyes that warm, or so impossibly soft. “I must say, current evidence is weighing heavily in favour of you not being a silly boy.”

Thomas wonders if the words sounded as obscene coming from his own mouth—if they gave Richard the same heady rush that he feels now, kindling an answering fire to burn in his veins.

Even the stars cannot rival the intensity of Richard’s gaze as he braces himself against the door, all his attention fixed on Thomas as he kneels before him, framed by the bracket of his hips. There is no trace of embarrassment in his expression, nothing self-conscious in the way he watches Thomas undress him and take him in hand, only a low curse issuing from his lips as Thomas leans in, determined to elicit those sounds from him again.

Richard returns the touch, later, once they have finally made it as far as the bed, curled together on the narrow mattress.

Before he is laid bare entirely, Richard peels the silk from Thomas’s palm, head bowed in benediction as he presses his lips to the scarred skin of his wrists, first one and then the other.

After everything they have shared tonight, it is the intimacy of that simple action that truly brings Thomas to realise that he is known—that he is loved.


End file.
